


Music in the Dark

by rhiannon15900



Category: The Professionals
Genre: A/U, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9398387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhiannon15900/pseuds/rhiannon15900
Summary: Doyle's car breaks down in the snow and he takes shelter with a mysterious stranger.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is by the author Rhiannon of Larton fame, who isn't on line; it's posted with her enthusiastic consent.
> 
> I'll pass on any comments/kudos to her.  
> Hgdoghouse

MUSIC IN THE DARK

RHIANNON

 

DOYLE gingerly lowered his car window and peered through the curtain of rain. Now did that sign actually say 'Moorland Cafe'? He decided it did, and that it might just be worth getting out of the car to see if a hot meal and a warm fire were available. If they weren't he'd be just as happy to settle for a hot drink and directions; he seemed to have got lost down a crease on his current map.

He emerged from the car and immediately wished he had not. It was, as they say, corning down in stair-rods, but unless he could drive his car through a narrow gateway and up a flight of steps there was no other way of reaching the front door.

He arrived at his goal considerably dampened, noticing with relief that there appeared to be lights in the back of the building, which presumably proved human habitation. He knocked, and when that failed to gain a response, knocked even harder, spurred on by the fact the rain was now flooding through his showerproof anorak. A dim light came on, and the door opened a fraction.

"We are closed," said an unwelcoming voice. "Till June 14th," it added.

"I'm after a hot drink and directions," said Doyle, "not your Bridal Suite. In the name of charity let me off this step, I'm drowning out here! Or I'll report you to the English Tourist Board."

"Just you, is there?" said the voice. "I can't cater for more than two."

"Just me," said Doyle. "This isn't the old Bates' place, is it?"

"Very funny," said the voice. "Come in before we both get washed away."

Once inside it was marginally warmer. As they made their way down a dim passage towards the rear of the building, Doyle noticed a large room at the front with a glimpse of stacked chairs and tables. At the back they seemed to be in a much older part of the building: the sound of the storm was muted.

"Here," said the voice, opening the door to a small parlour.

Doyle made straight for the blazing fire. A large black and white cat resting on the battered sofa looked at him curiously, then resumed its meditations. Doyle heard the gas go 'pop' in what he assumed was a kitchen; as he removed his jacket he heard a kettle start to sing.

"I can do you a mixed grill," said the voice. "Coffee won't be long."

"Thank you," said Doyle. He looked about the room; it was shabby but clean. Could have done a lot worse, he thought, and settled by the cat.

The 'voice' entered and handed him a large mug of coffee. Opening a cupboard and bringing out a bottle of rum, he looked at Doyle.

"Good idea," said Doyle, as a large dose was added to his coffee.

He sat there sipping while an enticing smell drifted from the kitchen; his stomach gave a gurgle of anticipation. It had been a very long time since his last meal - a very dubious motorway pie. A well-filled plate was placed on his lap and Doyle fell on it like a famished wolf.

The first pangs of hunger satisfied, he looked with interest at his host. He was a stocky man of medium height, wearing what seemed to be an excessive amount of clothing - until you had tested the temperatures in these parts, Doyle reasoned. He was unshaven and could be best described as dark and brooding.

Well, well, thought Doyle, found myself a Heathcliff. Think those moors are getting to me. He shivered suddenly. His host looked over.

"I can make you up a bed for the night," he said. "The storm is getting worse and we often get roads washed out on nights like this."

"Oh, great," said Doyle. "Thank you, that's very civil of you."

He was shown to a small bedroom, issued with a filled hot- water bottle and introduced to the somewhat primitive geyser in the bathroom.

He fell asleep listening to the wind howling round the house. On awakening, it took a moment to remember what he was doing in this room. He looked from the window. His host was standing talking to a gent in a Barbour jacket with a shotgun over his arm and carrying a brace of rabbits. Doyle watched as his host made his way back towards the house. By the time Doyle had had a good wash - the water was hot, he was pleased to find -and made his way downstairs, his taciturn companion was filling two bowls with porridge.

"Toast?" he inquired.

"Yes," said Doyle. Not much of a conversationalist, he decided, but he had given him a hot meal, a decent room for the night and a filling breakfast, and for that he was truly thankful.

"Looks as though I'll be able to get on now," said Doyle. "At least before the next downpour anyway."

His host nodded. "Yes, the road is still open. I'll sketch out the best route for you."

Doyle finished his meal. "Well, I'll just go and check my car," he said. "What do I owe you?" 

"Nothing, you were my guest last night."

"But..." Doyle began, then looked at the shuttered face. He shrugged.

oOo

Doyle stood looking at his car. He felt a strong urge to kick it. Battery flat as a pancake and water in everywhere! He'd told the car pool those sealings were rotten.

He walked back to the house, pausing to read the notice properly this time. 'James O'Brien, licensed to sell...' etc. etc. So that's who he is.

"Mr O'Brien," said Doyle formally, "I've great news: my battery is flat as a pancake, and the car is flooded. Have you a charger?"

"No," said O'Brien, "and my van is away at the moment."

"Phone?" said Doyle hopefully.

"Yes, and no," said O'Brien. "Yes I have a phone, no it won't do you any good. The line is down at the moment. They won't rush to mend it, not out here."

"Shit!" said Doyle. "All right, just point me toward the nearest garage. They can give me a lift back."

"It's six miles," said O'Brien, "mostly uphill."

"Yes, it would be," said Doyle. "Just point me on my way."

O'Brien shook his head and pointed in a westerly direction. "Just keep going down that road until you come to a turning on the left by a stone bridge. Go down that road; the village is about four miles further on."

"Well, I'll see you later then," said Doyle.

He zipped up his anorak and started off down the slope. Whether it was due to the slipperiness of the bank, or natural clumsiness as O'Brien claimed later, Doyle found himself off his feet and descending rapidly in a shower of mud and stones. When his head cleared he moved cautiously: he seemed to be all right. He put a hand to his head: blood. Graze, probably. Someone was clearing the stones and mud off him; he looked up into O'Brien's concerned blue eyes.

"Just not my day, is it," said Doyle. He started to get to his feet, put his weight on his right foot and - "Bugger!" he yelled. "I think I've done my ankle in."

Mr O'Brien gazed heavenward. As though to show no help could be expected from that direction, it now began to rain heavily again. He looked down at Doyle, sighed and suggested Mr Doyle might like some help back to the house.

Mr Doyle agreed that was an excellent idea and, supported, began to make his way back up the steep slope.

After a moment O'Brien paused. "Put on this," he said. "We are both going to be soaked. Then slung Doyle over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

Doyle suddenly finding himself hanging head downwards over a sturdy back was undecided whether to be furious or giggle. However, later, lying on the kitchen sofa, his ankle having been washed, and his host looking dubiously at its well-swollen appearance, he felt his sense of humour deserting him.

"Wriggle your toes," commanded O'Brien. "Good. It's not broken then."

"I know that," said Doyle. "Got my scout badge too. Bloody hurts though."

"Well you're not going anywhere on that," said O'Brien. "When it clears up I can get over to the village, ring your boss for you. Or family?" He looked at Doyle.

"My boss will see to that," said Doyle. "Is that thunder in the distance?"

"Probably," said O'Brien. He started to bolt the windows shut. "Once it starts blowing up here, if anything comes off, you can pick it up three counties away. And I think it's going to blow tonight."

This turned out to be something of an understatement. Doyle was sure the house was not only shaking, but every so often 'lifting' slightly from the ground. Would they, he wondered, end up being blown away like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz? After a particularly savage gust the cat disappeared under the sofa; Doyle felt a compulsive urge to join her. O'Brien, apparently unperturbed by the noises of the elements, busied himself in making a large pan of stew for their meal. While lacking in sophistication, it was warm and welcome.

Doyle poked the meat content. "What's this then?" he asked. "Doesn't taste very familiar." 

"Rabbit," said O'Brien. "Haven't you had it before?"

"No," said Doyle. "Saw the local Billy the Kid with a brace when I looked out of the window this morning."

"Mr Dakin," said O'Brien, "is a gamekeeper. It's his job to keep down vermin."

"Ooops," said Doyle. "You must be cursing me."

"No," O'Brien smiled suddenly. "You're an improvement on my last uninvited guests about six years ago: husband, wife, two children and mewling brat. None of 'em knew the word 'no'. By the time the road was open I was almost suggesting we could fricassee the baby if food got any shorter. Since then I rarely let anyone over the step out of season."

"How do you stand it up here?" Doyle asked. "It's very isolated. Think it would drive you potty." 

"It's only ten miles from Bakewell," said O'Brien. "Well, maybe fifteen. No, I'm used to it. How about a game of cards?"

Doyle mistakenly agreed. After losing five pounds, a small bottle of Scotch he was carrying for emergencies, and his host had expressed interest in his Swiss Army knife, he decided to call a halt.

"I could throw in the café in exchange," said O'Brien temptingly.

Doyle resisted this offer easily.

O'Brien sighed and began to practise some very fancy shuffling.

"All the same, you army boys," Doyle complained. "Comes from spending long hours in the barracks honing your skills. You are ex-army, aren't you?"

O'Brien's hands stilled a moment. "Yes," he said. "I did a turn in the army. My family were keen I should."

"While you, of course," said Doyle, "wanted to get away from it all to a place like this and write the great modern novel of our times."

"What a horrible idea," said O'Brien. "No, I had other ideas, just didn't work out."

"If you don't mind," said Doyle, "I think I'll hobble to bed. Haven't got a book, have you?" He was presented with assorted paperbacks and escorted to his room.

He lay listening to the storm. Funny, you could swear at times there were voices in the wind. Unnatural up here, that's what it was. He found his eyes were closing, so he gave up on the totally unrewarding whodunit he was trying to follow and fell asleep.

He was jolted awake by what sounded like the roof coming off. A glance at his watch showed it was still only 3 a.m. Well, rather than lying there thinking about his life, the condition of his soul, and other matters of a depressing nature, he decided to get up and find a hot drink. He made his way slowly and carefully to the kitchen. A kettle was set at the side of the Aga and he quickly brewed himself a cup of coffee. OK, so it would keep him awake, but everything else was doing that, too.

He paused to listen. Mind's going, he thought, can hear music. He listened to a muffled curse. Now that doesn't sound particularly ethereal. 

He made his way towards the sound. Should have put something on my feet, it's freezing. He glanced into the outer room of the café where everything was shrouded in dust cloths. It had the appearance of a third-rate rep's production of 'Outward Bound'. You're gloomy tonight, Doyle, he thought, or this morning to be precise. A flickering light was showing from a small room off the main hall. He made his way towards it, then stopped to listen. Very pretty that, he decided. The sort of tune that stays in your head.

"Don't stand hovering out there," said O'Brien. "Come in, you must be frozen."

Doyle entered; the flickering light was due to a guttering candle in its holder, perched on the top of a very old piano and probably ruining its varnish.

"I couldn't sleep," he said. "Decided I'd have a hot drink. Thought I heard the roof blowing off." He settled into an armchair and tucked his feet up, or almost did till his ankle twinged, at which he lowered it with a yelp.

"Ought to have more sense than to gallop about on that," said O'Brien. He stopped playing and picked up a large mug. "I couldn't sleep either," he said. "That crash was the side fence coming down, happens every gale. I just have it to keep the sheep out of the garden."

Doyle, who hadn't noticed anything as exotic as a garden near the house, decided not to ask just where it was in case he gave offence.

"That tune you were playing," he asked, "I can't place it at all. What is it?"

"Which one?" asked O'Brien, warming his hands on his mug.

Doyle whistled a few bars.

"Oh that," said O'Brien. He played the melody again, then paused a moment. "I forget what it's called. I heard it some years ago. You have a good ear. Do you play yourself?"

"Only under compulsion," said Doyle. "My father insisted I learn, to provide employment for his sister Polly, who gave lessons. She belonged to the heavy ruler school of teaching. You know, one mistake and it crashed down on your knuckles. Can't hear some tunes without wincing even now. Naturally I hated music for years and years."

"As we both seem to be up," said O'Brien, "let's go to the kitchen before frostbite settles in. And get off that bloody ankle!"

Doyle was, however, looking round the small room. "Hey, you've got a library in here!" he said, looking about in awe.

"It didn't really start out that way," O'Brien admitted. "I think they breed in the dark, like coat-hangers. You can get a lot of reading done stuck up here in the winter months, so I'd pick up the odd boxful at country house sales, and the second-hand bookshop in Bakewell. Never really bothered to look at what I'm getting in a job lot, and then you find yourself on stormy nights reading avidly about cowpox, and how to address the wife of the Lord Mayor of London."

"Housman," said Doyle, picking up a volume. "You an admirer of the Shropshire Lad? Friend of mine was, too."

"Yes," said O'Brien. "As I'm by way of being one myself. Come on, before you freeze."

oOo

Later in the day, after finding that having given its all by way of rain it was now beginning to snow, they looked over the food supplies.

"Seeing as it looks as though we are going to be stuck here like Robinson Crusoe," said Doyle, "let me do some of the cooking and washing up. I'm a fair hand at both. What's your store cupboard like?"

"Very basic," said O'Brien. "But I do have plenty of potatoes, onions, parsnips and turnips stored out the back, and we have half of that rabbit still."

Doyle surveyed the assortment of 'roots' without enthusiasm; the rabbit struck him as very undeveloped. "Just have to hope we don't end up with scurvy," he remarked. "How long has that tin of corned beef been sitting about? Haven't you got a deep freeze, filled with steaks?"

"I have a freezer," said O'Brien. "As it's running off the generator, which is unreliable, I can't keep meat long in there. That's why I usually pot a rabbit, or walk over to Dakin's for a chicken if I'm desperate."

"Forced into vegetarianism," said Doyle glumly, tossing an assortment of vegetables to his companion, who started peeling. "If we don't watch out, we'll end up like my mad cousin Beryl: heavily into lentils and the environment. She teaches music, too. Bloody hell! What happened? Here, stick your hand under the tap."

"I'd forgotten how sharp that knife was," said O'Brien; he had gone very pale.

"Don't care for the sight of blood, eh," said Doyle. "Where's your first aid box?"

"Especially when it's mine," said O'Brien. "Up there on the shelf."

"Good," said Doyle. "Now you just hold on tight so I can get a bandage on and apply some pressure. There..." He surveyed his handiwork with pride. "Knew it was worthwhile getting my first aid badge. You sit down and have a cup of tea and leave the cooking to me."

Doyle began to work out possible ingredients. "You have any curry powder?" he inquired. 

"Try the big cupboard, used to be some in there," replied O'Brien.

Doyle gave him an exasperated look and foraged in the cupboard's considerable depths, removing several packages so far past their 'use by date' it wasn't funny. Finally unearthing a half-empty tub of curry powder, a quick sniff told him it still had some life left, so he concocted a vegetable curry - with rabbit trimmings, if you looked hard.

O'Brien waved an appreciative fork as he ate. "I'm beginning to think it was worth it after all, rescuing you off my step," he remarked.

"I took the liberty," said Doyle, "of getting rid of some very aged packets."

O'Brien shrugged. "I usually have a good throw out in the spring," he said. "I'm not overwhelmed by customers at any time of the year. Apart from hill trekkers and they just want something hot and filling."

Doyle said he wasn't surprised at this.

Later in the evening, having decided their possible continued isolation warranted it, they opened a bottle of wine, and attempted to get news on the battery powered radio from the rapidly disappearing white world outside. After some hissing and squeaking, it informed them that any travel except for dire emergencies was not advised.

"Or even possible," said Doyle, looking out at the blizzard.

"The Dakins were cut off once for nearly three months," said O'Brien.

Doyle was now working out possible permutations on their stores, holding that can of corned beef as a last resort; it looked to him suspiciously like the same sort that did in the Franklin expedition. He spared a brief thought for his employer. Still, even George Cowley couldn't control acts of God - yet.

oOo

By the fourth day Doyle had surprised even himself with his ingenuity, helped by an elderly cookbook: 'The Economical Cookbook,' (or How to Live on Half a Crown a Day) rescued from a box of dusty tomes. O'Brien was most appreciative of his efforts, and was becoming much less taciturn, allowing a sense of humour to emerge and while they had differences, mostly solved by invigorating arguments, Doyle was finding his companion Al as a fellow castaway. He was also becoming charmed by him, which was a problem. While in London he would soon have picked up signs that his interest was returned, either O'Brien was incredibly dense, or unaware that deviations from the norm were possible.

Though as an ex-army man he must have had offers, thought Doyle, or made 'em. He hasn't responded to anything. I'm getting tired of draping myself seductively over a pan on the Aga, he thought gloomily. Either you're made of wood, or just uninterested. Pity. Oh well, pudding. Better go and get some eggs out of the isinglass. Yucky stuff! Wonder if he'd like a baked pudding? Have to finish that milk up.

"What are you doing?" asked O'Brien, entering with an armload of logs and a sack of muddy parsnips.

"Baked jam roll," said Doyle morosely. "Good thing we found that book."

"Doesn't have Boiled Baby in it, does it?" asked O'Brien hopefully. "We used to have it in boarding-school, all white and slimy, boiled in a cloth."

"Get out!" yelled Doyle. "You're putting me off." 

He chuckled to himself as he mixed. That sounded as foul as Ganges Mud, which was a staple on his school dinner menu.

 

"That was good," said Doyle dreamily, as they relaxed by the fire later in the evening, glass in hand. "You know when we were washing up, you'd swear there were forms moving in the snow out there, in the shadows, and they can't be, it's four feet deep."

"At least," said O'Brien. "It's the wind picking up eddies and then the light catches it, at least that's what they say."

"Ah," said Doyle. "Feel we should be cracking nuts and telling ghost stories at times like this. Know any?"

"Ghost stories, no," said O'Brien. "Mind, there's a stone circle up there on the moor, the Seven Ladies they call it. Well, on Midsummer Night the stones dance in the moonlight."

Doyle looked at him. "What do they dance?" he inquired, "Gavotte? Two step? Paso doble?" 

"I've wondered about that," said O'Brien. "No, it would have to be something very slow and stately, or maybe they just slowly revolve, widdershins, of course..." 

"You've lost me now," said Doyle. "What's widdershins?"

"Anti-clockwise," said O'Brien. "As done in the best witch circles."

"Shurrup," said Doyle, as another blast of wind howled round the house. "I'm starting to get the creeps. Don't believe that stuff, do you?"

"Not here and now, by the fire with a glass in my hand," said O'Brien. "But you ever find yourself at midnight alone on Stanton Moor, it's surprising what you can believe, or think you can see - or hear. Take tonight now. They say that sound is the Wild Host, Edric and his lady out hunting damned lost souls."

"Not sure I want to go to bed," said Doyle, with a shiver. "Seems a lot colder tonight, seeping into your bones. How the hell do the natives stand it up here?"

"A very hardy breed," said O'Brien. He looked at Doyle. "You could share my room, of course. It has an ongoing fire and constantly boiling kettle."

"Now that's an interesting offer," said Doyle. "But...do I..." He hesitated, not wishing to make a mistake.

"And you get to share my bed, if you wish to," said O'Brien. "And I think you do." 

"Thought you would never notice," said Doyle. "Or just were not inclined that way."

"I've been enjoying the floor show," said O'Brien. "You were making your interest very obvious. Fortunately I am attracted by you, too. But so you won't be disappointed, expecting bells to ring all over the place and that sort of rubbish, it's been a very long time for me."

"Not to worry," said Doyle briskly. "They say it's just like riding a bike: once learned. You know."

"God, I hope not," said O'Brien, "I'm a rotten cyclist. Come on, this fire's ready to be banked up. I'll boil a kettle so we can at least have some sort of a wash."

 

Doyle limped over to the fire in the bedroom grate and warmed his bare toes, turning to watch his companion remove more jerseys than you would think possible.

"There's still quite a lot of you, isn't there," he said critically. O'Brien paused, he had now reached his shirt and undervest, or so Doyle hoped.

"The same can't be said of you," he remarked. "Skinny little runt."

"Wiry," said Doyle. "Never mind, I like solid fellas. Thank goodness that's the last, I was afraid there was another six jerseys to go."

"Let's get to bed," said O'Brien, "before I change my mind and thump you. No, can't do that. What are you cooking tomorrow?"

"I think I'd have had the same result if I'd disguised myself as a plum duff!" said Doyle.

"Oh shut up and come here," said O'Brien, laughing.

 

"Ray?" asked O'Brien. "What's the matter, can't you sleep?"

"No," said Doyle, with a sigh. "It's the quiet. Bad enough that wind, but now... It's unnatural. No friendly local noises: police sirens, car alarms going off, drunks yodelling after being thrown out of 'The Fox' at 2 a.m., then saying goodnight indefinitely, followed by a happy banging of car doors. I've tried counting sheep, trouble is, I can't quite remember what they look like."

O'Brien chuckled and settled them both more comfortably. "You look out of that window in the spring and you'll see more sheep than you ever want to," he said. "How do you manage to sleep with all that going on?"

"Take a pill," said Doyle. "So when I don't, I have insomnia. Don't suppose you've heard of it."

"Yes," said O'Brien, "now and again. Usually I crash right out, but if I don't, well, I lie here and design a garden, real big one, where I have to shift every spadeful of soil myself By the time I've built a rock terrace I'm away."

"Not bad that," said Doyle. "That what you were hoping to do with your life?"

"Something like that," said O'Brien. "It just didn't work out. But come the spring and if I can keep the sheep out, I have a pretty decent patch back of the house. Built the walls for it myself… " 

"I suppose I could build a motor bike from scratch," said Doyle. "Going and getting every part separately. Have to try it."

"You never told me what you do for a living," said O'Brien.

"It isn't very interesting," said Doyle. "Office work. I've been looking over one of our departments in Carlisle. Had to make a few calls on the way back. I'm not familiar with this part of the country, so got lost. Fortunately I'd phoned in before I started out so they know I've got to be somewhere in this area. Probably a lot of people got stranded. I'm rather enjoying being away from the place. What do you do in the winter, this place can't pay much then?"

"Oh, I get by," said O'Brien. "Do some shooting for the local farmers - carrion crows, rabbits. Can always pick up a few days' work. I've learned to do most things on a farm. And it doesn't cost much to live up here. The places to spend money are on the sparse side, when you can get to them."

"Um," said Doyle. "But surely...? Oh well..." He was drifting off nicely now.

oOo

Another day passed, then to Doyle's mild regret the sky seemed to be clearing. Just when we were really improving our technique, he thought sadly. I wonder if... No, was just a winter romance.

O'Brien remarked that a definite thaw was underway, and as Doyle had managed to slip on the kitchen floor, re-crocking his ankle, he'd better trek over to the village and see about help for the car.

"Any chance you could ring a number for me?" asked Doyle. "Just let 'em know I'm all right and what happened to the car. Ask for George Cowley. If he's not there, someone will take a message."

"Right," said O'Brien. He glanced at the number. "I'll see if I can get us a chicken to celebrate our survival." Doyle grinned and waved as he set off, dressed for a trip to the North Pole.

Doyle hobbled back indoors and opened the last but three tins of Felix for Jemima. "You're a lucky girl," he said. "A couple more days and we'd have been eating it ourselves."

Jemima correctly took this as an utter lie and ignored him.

Funny thing, mused Doyle, I don't want to be rescued, had more fun here than on my last holiday, whenever that was.

oOo

P.C. Marsden looked up. "It's not done, Mr O'Brien, to send civilian messages over our waveband."

O'Brien sighed. "Look, Joe, the poor guy's been stranded at my place for a week. He's got a crocked ankle and his car's laid up, battery's flat, and we need to dig it out. And you know the line's down from the village. Just let his firm know where he is."

"All right, let's see the number." The constable stared at it a moment. "No problem," he said. "I'll get on to them right away. What did you say his name was?"

"Ray Doyle," said O'Brien, surprised. "Know them, do you?"

"Yes," said the constable. "If you'll give me a moment." He turned away and began to transmit the message.

O'Brien listened. It didn't sound like an office supplier.

P.C. Marsden came back smiling. "That's fine," he said. "They were getting quite worried about Mr Doyle. I've given them your address and map reference, a helicopter will be dropping in on you in the morning to collect their man, and leaving someone to deal with the car. I'm to see about getting it out of the drift. Nothing for you to worry about."

"You contacted Mr Cowley, then?" said O'Brien.

"Spoke to George Cowley himself," said the constable. "Well, I'd better get out now and see if Neville has finished work on the van. Oh, Jim Dakin was in. He'll be contacting you about going after some crows at the weekend."

O'Brien nodded and left the station. So Mr Doyle was a policeman, was he?

 

Doyle passed a mug of steaming coffee over. "Look as though you need that," he said. His slightly blue companion accepted it gratefully.

"That's a nice looking bird," Doyle went on, aware that even considering O'Brien looked half frozen, he also seemed very distant.

"They rang that number for you at the police station," said O'Brien. "P.C. Marsden recognised it at once. Spoke to George Cowley personally. They will send a helicopter for you in the morning, and see about the car."

"Good," said Doyle. "I'll start on that bird. Did you bring any stuffing?"

"They shoved a packet in the bag for me," said O'Brien. "I'll just go and get a wash."

Doyle sighed and started inspecting the chicken's innards for contents. He would have been mildly concerned to know his companion was briskly searching his luggage. It took O'Brien only a moment to find the gun. He looked at it, then with a shrug dropped it back in the bag and went to his room.

 

They ate their last dinner in silence, apart from a few necessary remarks.

"You'll be wanting an early night," said O'Brien. "I'll be off now. Good night." 

"Night," said Doyle, hearing the other bedroom door shut firmly.

 

Doyle looked at his bag, checked the gun was still loaded. Now why had he just left everything? Wanted to say OK, I've got your measure and I don't like men with guns? He knows I'm not the IRA or SAS. Ah well... Pity, I liked you.

The chopper arrived bright and early. Doyle finished his breakfast hurriedly.

O'Brien was now back to his old taciturn self. "You must be a valuable employee," he said, as they watched the helicopter circle. "Or have information they want."

"I'll just get my bag," said Doyle. He whistled cheerfully as he went back to his room. "Well, I'll be off then. You put up with me very well. Can I - ?"

"No!" said O'Brien. "You earned your keep."

There was knock on the door. Anson stood there, smoking as usual.

"'Lo, Terry," said Doyle. "You'll have to give me a hand to the helicopter. I've done my ankle in. Well, thank you again, Mr O'Brien."

Anson helped him down the slope. "Awful place, this," he remarked. "I have the charger with me, and the local cops are getting the car back to their place. Who's the sportsman? On the dour side, isn't he?"

"Owner," said Doyle. "Don't annoy him, he's had a rough week with me."

"I never annoy men with shotguns over their arm," said Anson, "unless it's in the line of duty."

The pilot helped Doyle into the helicopter. As Doyle looked back Anson had the car bonnet up, while a police van was slowly converging on the café. O'Brien was walking steadily up the ridge, carrying his gun. Probably after them damned crows, thought Doyle. I'll drop you a note saying thanks from London. Stick in some paperbacks.

oOo

"Just when I needed to get home at a reasonable hour," Doyle grumbled, a month later in London. "My cousin Beryl's calling, I've been piano sitting her baby grand for her. She was bounced out of her flat a week before she was set to take up a new job in Wales and didn't want to risk it in storage, takes moods, and as I've got a ground floor flat... Don't blame her really, he has a lovely tone. So she's coming to stay over tonight, and then supervise them removing him to the Land of the Leek."

Mercifully he wound up the rest of the job and arrived back before Beryl descended laden down with cartons from the local Chinese take-away.

"Here!" she said. "Start warming plates while I sort this lot out. I couldn't manage ice-cream as well."

"Plenty in the freezer," said Doyle. "That looks good. Wonder what wine will go with it. No, better have that later. I'm going to miss little Ludwig, he gave tone to the place."

"Ha ha," said Beryl. "And you've kept him dusted too. Like me to play you some Stockhausen later?"

"No," said Doyle. "And if you do, I'll charge you rental."

"Schubert?" she suggested. "Something nice and sentimental."

"It's a deal," said Doyle. "Just keep off the moderns. I get enough aggravation in my working life. Well, what's the family news? Is Cousin Elsie still chasing that Greek?"

 

Doyle sprawled on the sofa, happily replete, as Beryl dried dishes and filled him in on the family news, especially items of an amusing or scandalous nature. Then she collapsed in an armchair, gin and tonic in hand.

"It's a dream," she said happily. "Tomorrow little Ludwig and I will be off to a lovely flat with a fantastic view of the Bay if I stand on the dressing-table - and if I don't, a view of seven tennis courts with frightfully active young people saying in well-modulated but firm tones, 'That ball was out!'. I'm really looking forward to settling there: lots of fresh air, good money, and peace and quiet to work."

"You deserve it," said Doyle, "after all the pits you've worked in up to now. How is your own work coming on?"

"Interest has been shown," said Beryl. "We just have to wait and see if it will amount to anything. Meanwhile, I keep on writing the stuff. Cross your fingers for me."

"Done," said Doyle. "Now play me something soothing, I've had a lousy day."

He was drifting along with the music when he suddenly started. "Beryl! That last melody... Play it again, would you."

"This one? Sorry, that's all I can remember. I lost the copy Will did for me in one of my moves. Do you like it?"

"Very much," said Doyle. "The damn thing's been playing in my head for weeks. Now you can tell me what it's called, who wrote it, and where can I get a copy?"

"I'm afraid you can't," said Beryl. "A friend of mine at university wrote it. He died some years ago. I don't know what he was going to call it. I'm sure it was never published. Where did you hear it?"

"Remember I was snowed up, marooned, in Derbyshire about a month ago?" said Doyle. "In this café, the sort that gives you heartburn just looking at the building. Mine host used to play that in the evening on the grottiest piano you've ever seen. Sure your mate wrote it?"

"Definitely!" said Beryl. "I wonder where he heard it. Could have been old friend of Will's, I suppose, down on his luck - only most of his old friends, apart from us, were army men."

"He was army all right," said Doyle. "Best card sharp I've met in ages."

"Sounds terribly romantic," said Beryl. "Scion of a noble house, driven to keeping a low eating den in the wilds, his heart breaking as he plays in the moonlight..." 

"Oh God," said Doyle, "Annie S. Swan rides again. Don't know where a sensible girl like you gets it from. He was Irish, hefty, probably wearing about twenty-seven thick jerseys, designer stubble ... and if he had a broken heart, he was hiding it successfully. Come on, look at that time. If I'm going to get you and Baby off to the Promised Land bright and early I need to get to bed. Hope that sofa is more comfortable than usual."

oOo

Doyle put his pen down and leaned back in his chair; that tune was in his head again, a present from mine host, and the sod hadn't bothered to answer his note. Wonder why he went through my bag. Thought I was the IRA... No, he would look the part more. He sat up straight. No, couldn't be. Why not? said his policeman's voice. Lonely place, perfect for passing cars: lost, benighted. O'Brien's an Irish name. So's Doyle, come to that. Stop it, the job's getting to you. Can't be making a mint up there. No, probably does all right in the summer. Didn't seem to be worried about not being in Egon Ronay's little guide. Go on then, check him out. Let's see what we have on Mr James O'Brien.

The answer was nothing, or at least none of the James O'Briens on file matched his host. He pondered a moment. Hang on, he had a liquor licence. That was odd, too. They were hard to get.

The authorities were usually strict about such things. Now, how can I tap those records? Getting information from those jealously guarded files was only slightly easier than from MI5, but Doyle eventually obtained what meagre information they had. Apart from some impressive references, it merely said Mr James O'Brien came of poor but honest stock, and could be trusted with a licence. None of the information given seemed to match up though with the man Doyle had met; it just didn't 'fit'.

This man also had an Irish passport, and had never taken out naturalisation papers. Well, thought Doyle, that doesn't mean a thing. They give 'em out over there with packets of cornflakes. He wondered if he should mention this to Mr Cowley, but he had no evidence that anything was wrong.

In the end he decided it had to be brought to Mr Cowley's attention. Mr Cowley, after ascertaining that there was no record of any IRA cell in the Peak District (to Doyle's relief), looked over his information.

"All you really have to go on is that he went through your bag," said Mr Cowley. "He just may not like CI5 officers and wanted to see if you were armed. He well might not be who he claims; the reasons could be understandable and of no interest to us but would make him wary of you. I will make some discreet local inquiries to settle the matter. Now, you'll be pleased to hear the Jamieson matter has been resolved satisfactorily."

"Good," said Doyle. "Now how about that rota for the observation to be kept on Monmouth House. And I need to discuss Andrews with you..." 

oOo

A few days later, playing quietly in his flat, Doyle found he was picking out that damned tune again. "Wish you sounded more like Beryl's," he said sadly to his piano. "Just too many moves you've had. Wonder what her Will was like? Leave it, Doyle. No, let's tie all the ends up."

Beryl was in no mood for unneeded phone calls. "Ray! I'm in the middle of the music exams! Oh yes, thank you for the parcel. I did wonder where I had left them. Will? William Bodie: he was killed in a car accident while I was in New York. What year was that? Listen, Ray... Oh, ten, twelve years ago, in Shropshire somewhere. Must go."

Doyle made a long search through accident reports of ten, twelve years back (in fact it was fourteen). "Wish Beryl wasn't so damned vague," he muttered. "Hell's teeth, more people killed that month than at the Battle of Hastings: holiday season, that accounts for it. Now, let's see..." 

He studied the accident report. It seemed straightforward enough: a bad winding hill road, car going out of control and much too fast hit a barrier, then appeared to have somersaulted down and burst into flames on impact, leaving very little to pick up afterwards but shredded metal; the driver had been unidentifiable apart from being male, of average height, and having his own teeth, and that was about it. The car, when finally traced, had belonged to a Mr William Bodie, living in Shropshire, an ex-army man, had been taking a course in horticulture, etc. etc... So that was Beryl's Will, thought Doyle. Pity. The funeral, he found later from a small piece in the local paper had been a quiet one. Will was buried in the local churchyard near his father, who had died many years before. The family requested no flowers or callers at this sad time. That's it then, thought Doyle. I'll just see who got probate of any estate. No, it's not important. Go on, Doyle, finish a job properly. 

It took him five minutes to find the entry. Letters of Administration for the estate of Mr William A. P. Bodie were issued to Captain Andrew Jenner of Springfield, The Tussocks, Hay-on-Wye. Doyle made a note and, satisfied, left.

oOo

"You can stand the men down now, Doyle," said Mr Cowley. "They've done a good job."

"Thank you," said Doyle. "And I'm going home to soak in a hot bath. Freezing on a rooftop in mid-January isn't my idea of fun. Look, would it be possible for me to take a few days' leave? You know, the leave I've been due for eight months? I'd like to get away from it all next week, get some fresh air, clear my lungs."

"You've just been complaining of too much fresh air," pointed out Mr Cowley. "You don't intend to go abroad, I hope?"

"No, sir," said Doyle wearily. "I'll be within calling distance. A cousin of mine teaches music at Penrhos College in Wales. I'd like to call on her - family business."

"Penrhos as in Colwyn Bay?" asked Mr Cowley.

"Yes," said Doyle. "Go on, tell me it's your old school."

"Hardly," said Mr Cowley. "But a young niece of mine went there; she has done quite well. Yes, I see no reason why not, but keep in touch."

"I know," said Doyle. "So you can call me in. Better go and pack my wellies and woollies - mid-January in Wales can be bloody cold - and check for somewhere to stay. Hope they're not all closed up."

oOo

Happily they were not, and St Enoch's, apart from its compulsory bingo evenings and 'good plain food', was at least well-heated. Beryl greeted the news of Doyle's arrival with less than rapture, cheering up only when he suggested they had dinner out at his expense, and she could name the place. Her suggestion of Alfredo's, The Square, Conwy, was not well received.

"I could get stuck on that bloody bridge for hours," Doyle moaned.

"Rubbish!" said Beryl. "It's hardly going to be packed with trippers in January!"

The food was worth the trip, and with several glasses of Chianti under her belt Beryl became more expansive.

"Best meal I've had in ages," she said. "They are a nice crowd, but very earnest - as it should be. But were we ever that way? Now, what's your sinister reason for wining and dining me?"

"Remember that man I told you about in the café?" said Doyle. "Well, there is something odd there. Now he hasn't done anything, but I'm wondering if he could be a friend of your William. You said he had visitors, ex-army types. Suppose you haven't any group photos of your happy college days? Just something I need to sort out and forget."

Beryl pondered. "Well, I have two carrier bags of stuff I was going to throw out. I've been having a spring-clean. God knows why I've left it till now, bringing all the rubbish with me. You can look through them, but not tonight! I work in a respectable girls' college and you cannot enter my room without a chaperon, and not after ten anyway. Come over tomorrow and we can look through the stuff in the lounge. There could be some family photos you might want to keep. Now, about pudding?"

"You can't eat pudding as well?" said Doyle, aghast.

"You watch me," said Beryl.

 

Next day they started leafing through mountains of ephemera, Doyle protesting at her wanton casting to the four winds of his family.

"For heaven's sake, Ray," said Beryl, "you know you couldn't stand Auntie Bella either, or her spotty son. Ah!" She pounced. "The Album. Should be something in here. There, that's William, the blurred figure at the back."

"Why," Doyle inquired of fate, "is the person I am interested in always the blurred figure at the back? You can't tell anything from this!"

"One of us all at a pyjama party," said Beryl. "Don't we look frightful?"

"Yes," said Doyle shortly. "I suppose he's the one in the false beard and nose?"

"No he isn't, and they were not," said Beryl. "Ah, this is a little better."

Doyle peered at the grainy print. "I wish you all had better cameras," he remarked. "Or less tendency to shake. Pissed, I suppose. Who's the good-looking lad next to you? Wait a minute..." He picked a photograph from the floor with a yell of triumph.

"That's him!" he said. "Or it could be, weathered by the years and unshaven. Suppose the good-looking lad with him is your Will."

She took the photo. "So it was David you met," she said. "Funny, I can't remember him being musical at all. Yes, he was a pretty lad, but too much of a spoilt brat for me. I forgot I had that photo of them both, must have been one of the last times we were all out together. Can't think why David would be running a café, his father was a clergyman."

"They always go off the rails," said Doyle sagely.

"Who, clergymen?" asked Beryl. "No, I can't believe it He'd faint at the sight of hard work, would David."

"Looked quite sturdy to me," said Doyle. "Wonder what went wrong?"

"Ray," she asked hesitantly, "who are you talking about?"

"Him, of course," said Doyle, pointing.

"Ray, that's Will!"

Doyle felt a cold shiver down his back. "It can't be, he's dead," he said. "I read the report." 

They stared at each other.

 

"Ray, what are you going to do?" she asked.

Doyle shook his head. "Nothing, I hope. Can I take this photo? Look, I'll keep in touch." 

"Ray, just a moment. You liked him, didn't you - the man you met? Just your sort?" 

"Yes, I did," said Doyle. "That's why I want to leave well alone."

oOo

He was still wondering what to do when he returned to the office, called up all the information he could find on William Bodie, deceased, and matched it against his memories of James O'Brien. Too good a match, he thought. Let's leave this on hold for now.

Murphy came over. "Mr Cowley has plans for another trip north for you," he said. "Don't look at me, I don't speak the language. And they have asked for you."

"What it is to be needed," said Doyle. "Why can't they ever want me in Torquay, preferably in the summer!"

 

So Doyle found himself back in the North. He was not fond of that area of England. As far as he was concerned the laconic inhabitants could secede at any time: they would not be missed. However, he wound up the job he was doing in record time. Nothing like a fervent dislike of the place you find yourself to spur on efforts to get away, he thought. After making his report to Mr Cowley he was informed that as he was in the general area, a trip to Wirksworth was on the cards for him, where the local police would like him to assist them in their inquiries.

He took a hurried look at his map. Wirksworth! What on earth would he have to do there? As far as he knew he'd never set eyes on the place. However, he set off gingerly across the hills. He was welcomed with a much needed hot cup of indifferent tea and informed he was needed to make a formal identification, and if he would follow the main car they wouldn't waste any more of his valuable time as Mr Cowley would like him back in London as soon as possible - a view Doyle heartily concurred with in this case.

He realised very quickly that he remembered the road they were following and that they were approaching the café. He noticed that the area looked less bleak. He was asked to wait in the car while two officers went inside.

Oh God. No! he thought. How did he find out?

He was beckoned over as they brought a man out.

"This is the man known to you as James O'Brien, Mr Doyle?"

Doyle swallowed. "Yes," he said finally.

The policeman turned. "William A. P. Bodie, I arrest you for the wilful murder of Colonel George Jenner on 7th April, 19 - " His voice droned on, repeating the formula.

Doyle stared at O'Brien - Bodie? - whose face was pale and expressionless.

"Have you anything to say?" Bodie was asked. He shook his head, then: "My cat, could I arrange for her to be taken care of? Mrs Evans, she's inside."

"Very well, fetch her, sergeant."

A stout countrywoman appeared, then went back in and returned with Jemima tucked under her arm. Doyle felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle; a small crowd had gathered and they didn't appear too friendly. O'Brien glanced across at them and shook his head. He looked down at his manacled hands and then at Doyle.

"I'm glad it's over," he said.

"Mr Doyle," said the officer, "you'd better leave now with us."

Doyle waited at the station to hear that the police from Shropshire would be calling to collect the prisoner, and to again receive the congratulations of the local force.

"You did very well to spot him, but I wouldn't come back up here for a while. Odd lot these hill people. Things have been known to happen. They don't like outsiders interfering, and that means anyone from five miles away. They'd closed the case down, the Shropshire force. Never happy with it, they told me. Now it can be really settled and finished with."

"Yes," said Doyle mechanically. "I'd better get back to London."

Concentrating fiercely on the drive back to London, Doyle could not allow himself to consider the events he had unwittingly initiated. Time to start planning what to do about them when he was back at base. He allowed himself to hope wryly that Beryl was still a confirmed non-reader of the daily press.

He was greeted by Murphy when he checked in at the office. "You're the Old Man's blue-eyed boy at the moment," he said, "assisting our brothers in blue to apprehend a dangerous criminal."

"How did you get on to him?" asked Doyle. "I'd not made a definite connection, and someone's in that grave."

"Interesting that, isn't it," said Murphy. "We needed to check your case notes, spotted your O'Brien/Bodie research. The Old Man said why hadn't you obtained Bodie's birth certificate; sent me round to St Catherine's. God, sheer chaos. Like a rugby scrum in there. Had to pull everything for them to give me a copy that day. Saw his mother was an O'Brien, checked with the family solicitors. She'd gone back to the Republic when widowed - some trouble with the old man (her son's guardian) - to the same small town in Galway that O'Brien has on his records. Tried the local gardai there, like getting blood from a stone. But they agreed she had died a couple of years ago. Left a small property and some investments to a Mr James O'Brien of 'The Moorland Café'; no-one thought it odd apparently. After that, a quick call to Shropshire, and you know the rest."

Doyle nodded and went to his desk. First he needed to find out what had happened all those years ago. Listen, Doyle, he told himself, he might just be guilty. Just because you had a couple of passion-filled nights with him, and personally like him, could still be a wrong 'un. No, not that sort of wrong 'un anyway. Now, who do I know owes me a favour at Telford?

oOo

"Morning, sir," said Doyle. "I need to go over to Telford tomorrow. I've fixed up an appointment to see William Bodie."

"Have you indeed," said Mr Cowley. "I doubt very much whether he will want to see you. Why, Doyle? It's up to the courts now, nothing to do with us."

"I've read through the case history," said Doyle, "and I'm not convinced he did it. You get to know someone quite well snowed up with them for a week, and what they say he did doesn't match the man I knew at all. This case is fourteen years old: people forget; the police in charge now were not then, most of 'em anyway. For one thing, there is no motive, no robbery. The old man seems to have been a cantankerous old sod, but he wasn't holding on to money Bodie needed and anyway, Bodie would have had full control of his property in two years."

"It's not just Colonel Jenner though," said Mr Cowley. "There is the matter of whose body was in that car. They could have been killed in the impact, or were they dead already? It could have been a double murder. Have you considered that?"

"Yes," said Doyle. "That's another reason I need to see Mr Bodie."

"All right, Doyle, but remember we have nothing to do with this case. Do I make myself clear? I'll need you back as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," said Doyle. "Thank you."

oOo

On arriving at the prison Doyle was shown to the visitors room; Bodie was brought in. He was now clean-shaven, his face thinner and much paler than Doyle remembered. They stared at each other a moment, Bodie with a look of cool detachment.

"Is there anything you need in here," said Doyle, "that I can bring you in?"

"No," said Bodie. "Why have you come?"

"You never answered my note," said Doyle. "And I'm the reason you're here."

Bodie raised an eyebrow. "You can see why now," he said. "I knew you must be connected with the police. Funny thing, when you came banging on my door something did say to me, don't open it, let him drown out there."

"By the pricking of my thumbs, eh," said Doyle. "Why haven't you made a statement?"

"None of your business." said Bodie. "Is there any way I can get you to go away?"

"Sure," said Doyle. "Tell me you did it, and convince me you're telling the truth. If you did do it, you must have had a damned good reason, and if you didn't you are shielding someone else. The man I met at 'The Moorland Café' wasn't a killer, but he could be a damned fool. As I said, I put the police on to you, now I need to justify that, find out the truth."

Bodie looked at him a moment. "That's honest," he said. "But it isn't important. I always knew it would happen. It doesn't matter any more."

"Of course it bloody matters!" said Doyle. "What about your family, have they been informed?" 

"I'd rather they were kept out of this," said Bodie. "Having buried me, my resurrection can only be an embarrassment. I'm sure they'd prefer to leave it like that."

"What about David?" asked Doyle. "Won't he be concerned about you?"

"He lives abroad." said Bodie. "No reason for him to get involved."

"Well then," said Doyle, "let's see what I can find out about this cousin of yours, Captain Andrew Jenner, sounds very la-di-da."

"No!" Bodie leaned forward and grabbed Doyle's arm. "You leave Andrew alone." The warder immediately put on an arm lock.

"Now don't be silly, sir," he said. Bodie didn't relax his grip.

"It's all right," said Doyle. "Bodie, just let go of my arm." He looked into the furious blue eyes.

"Come on now, this is no place for you to get excited over me making a stupid remark, is it?" Bodie slowly released his arm. The warder moved back and Doyle breathed a sigh of relief. "I have to go now," said Doyle. "Are you sure there isn't anything I can get you?"

Bodie rose to his feet. "No, but thank you for coming. Goodbye, Mr Doyle."

"Bastard," muttered Doyle. Well Mr Bodie, he said to himself, if think that cold as ice act is going to put me off. Now to get hold of Beryl and see what she can remember of the past.

oOo

Beryl, on being contacted, pointed out she was extremely busy. No, she had not seen the papers, when did he think, etc. Her remarks on him explaining the situation were vitriolic, and upon him suggesting she might like to come down to London and avert a miscarriage of justice (Beryl, he remembered, was very hot on miscarriages of justice), she remarked that of course she would be down - to break his bloody neck.

"Good," said Doyle tranquilly. "See you about eleven then."

Happily by the time she had read some of the tabloids on the train and arrived in London Beryl was in a calmer frame of mind and eager to help.

"Fortunately it is half-term, and I had to come down to see Uncle Alfred," she said. 

"God, why?" said Doyle. "None of us can stand him."

"I promised Ivor I would while he's abroad," she said. "Now, give me a coffee. And what do you want to know? But it's years ago."

"It all happened years ago," said Doyle. "Forget what you know now, just try and tell me as though I'm asking about an old friend of yours. By the way, you never said how good a friend, did you."

"Just a comrade for concert-going and having fun with," said Beryl. "I did fancy him, but he wasn't interested. We met at a party. He was doing a degree in horticulture, something like that, with music composition on the side as I remember. Found we had tastes in common, that sort of thing."

"Did he get his degree?" asked Doyle.

"Of course he did, same time I got mine, more or less. We all went on the town celebrating: him and his two cousins (a rather stuffy soldier and his sister). I remember she kept staring at my hair. Mind, it was green at the time. Oh, and Will's mother. She was over for an RHS show - ran a nursery in Ireland somewhere."

"Did Will ever mention problems with his uncle?" asked Doyle. "Money, I mean; that sort of thing." 

"He was always having problems with him. The old man was furious when he finished in the army, but Will had always said he was just going to do a short period of service then get to what he really wanted to do. He wasn't entitled to inherit his land or capital then. so the army covered the time and he studied when he could. But he wasn't that bothered, he only had a year or two to go and he was going to help out at his mother's place to gain work experience. Then I went abroad and the next thing I heard he'd been killed in that crash. I remember thinking it wasn't bloody fair. There was a small notice that his uncle had died. Very fond of rushing to the courts, his uncle. I remember Will laughing once over his uncle's antics over a disputed right of way, and a row with a neighbouring landowner over his cows trespassing. And as for poachers...he wanted to bring back hanging, drawing and quartering.”

"Very litigious," said Doyle, "in fact."

"Definitely," said Beryl. "It couldn't be that cousin, could it? I didn't like him much, but he did seem a good sort really, and thought his old man was a hoot."

"I'd like it to be him, too," said Doyle, "but anyone who is unpardonably rude to a Sun reporter has to have good points. Well, I'd better get to work. Can I drop you at Uncle Alfred's?"

"Certainly not," said Beryl. "I want to leave that treat until the last, so I can look at his clock and scream 'Dammit, the train' just before he gets too much for me. You can drop me at Fortnum & Mason's instead. I wish to spend my bonus on decadent luxuries."

"And to think you were always the one wanting to man the barricades," said Doyle. "Come on, then."

oOo

Mr Cowley looked at the man across the table from him. You are causing me a lot of trouble, Mr Bodie, he thought. Well, let's get on with it.

"Mr Bodie, my name is George Cowley; I run CI5. One of my operatives is known to you."

Bodie nodded. "I've heard of you," he said.

"Good," said Mr Cowley. "Then you'll appreciate I have little time to waste on an apparently intelligent man who is making no apparent effort to help himself. You are also distracting Mr Doyle from his work. I've spoken to your former commanding officer, Colonel Melchett. He asked me to help you, he had a high opinion of you when you served in his company."

"My solicitor has informed me," said Bodie, "I can legally refuse to make a statement."

"True," said Mr Cowley, "but as you have also refused to allow him to mount a defence for you... But that is not important at the moment. You may recall you were given a thorough medical examination when you arrived here?"

"Yes," said Bodie. "I assumed it was so the defence could not claim I'd acquired fresh bruises in here. Everyone has been most correct," he added.

"It was noted," Mr Cowley went on, "that at some time in the past you had acquired a severe head injury, and not in your army service. I have checked your records. Can you remember when this happened?"

Bodie licked his lips. Mr Cowley noted dispassionately that he had gone even paler.

"I can't remember...exactly," Bodie said finally.

"It had been sutured," said Mr Cowley. "Surely you can remember who did that?" 

"The local doctor at Oughterard," said Bodie. "He didn't know who I was."

"Of course not," said Mr Cowley. "That's all I wanted to know. His name, please." 

"Coghill," said Bodie. "Will you...thank Colonel Melchett from me."

"Of course," said Mr Cowley. "I imagine I will be seeing you again before this is all cleared up."

oOo

"Well. George," said the Inspector, "what is your opinion? We are not happy about this case at all. There is motive, but not enough, and while practically anyone after five minutes with the old man fancied throttling him, Mr Bodie does not have a history of violence. We are still trying to work out who was in that damned car. No one local is missing and I can't see whoever else it could be. Mr Bodie was seen turning into the driveway of his uncle's house, and in the village that afternoon buying a pound of apples."

"Alone, of course," said Mr Cowley.

"Yes, in the village certainly; in the car, no-one noticed. You know what those places are like: everyone heads home at four o'clock, and unless they fancy a trot down to the local pub, stay home or 'do a bit in the garden'. That's fine till you come to something like this. Then, not only do they 'mind their own business' but seem to take a pride in not noticing what's going on. To hear them tell it, anyway. His fingerprints were at the scene, but as he was in and out of the house... The only others we can't account for are not on record."

"Others?" said Mr Cowley. "On the weapon?"

"Possibly. Blurred, though. But we had - have - no reason to put anyone else there. He was going a hell of a lick when the car went off the road, we know that definitely. That's funny too, he's not the sort to panic I would have said. Could have bluffed it out. But he won't make a statement."

"I appreciate you letting me see him," said Mr Cowley, "unofficially, of course."

"George, let me know if you find anything. We are considering an exhumation order, but the relatives have to be informed and after fourteen years..." 

"Quite," said Mr Cowley. "And from the report, little enough to go on then."

"Yes."

oOo

"Oh, Doyle," said Mr Cowley, after he had gone through the reports the next morning, "stay a moment, I have to discuss a matter with you, and we have a gentleman calling whose information could be of interest to you. I went to see Mr Bodie at Telford yesterday. Sit down, this could take some time."

"Did he say anything?" asked Doyle. "It was like getting blood out of a stone when I tried."

"Not precisely," said Mr Cowley. "But I did learn some things. He has also refused to allow his lawyer to mount a defence, and will not speak to him either, by the way. Even the police are not happy with the case. His uncle's unusual behaviour could have been enough to have caused his death: a very combative gentleman. But that still leaves the body in the car, whom they have not yet been able to identify."

"Damn," said Doyle. "So the idiot is just going to walk into a possible life sentence. You don't think he did it either, do you."

"That's not important," said Mr Cowley. "The other information I have is conjecture. We will discuss that after our visitor, who should arrive shortly. Ah, here he is."

His secretary ushered in a tall man with military bearing.

"Good morning, Major Jenner. Good of you to spare the time. This is Mr Doyle, one of my operatives; he was in at the start of this matter."

Major Jenner looked at Doyle without enthusiasm; the look was returned. He seated himself. "Yes, I know. Pity he couldn't have left well alone," remarked the Major. "When I heard CI5 was involved I made some inquiries of my own. Colonel Sutherland speaks highly of you, sir."

"Does he indeed," said Mr Cowley. "Then you are prepared to help us? Mr Bodie refuses to make any statement, and will not instruct his lawyer as to a defence. And while it's purely instinct, I don't think he did it. Do you?"

"I never did," said Major Jenner. "Will just isn't the sort, but the old man could get you so mad. We had not spoken for years after I refused to break my engagement to the daughter of a man he was at odds with. Told him to go to hell and married Ann anyway; sent him an invitation to our son's christening. He refused to come, so I thought, that's it. I was very surprised to find I was back in his will: my sister and I used to go in and out all the time; it was one of his favourite occupations."

"There could have been no one else at the house that day?" asked Mr Cowley. "Your cousin was seen in the village and near the house, but no-one else. Could he have met a friend? We know that two people must have been involved: someone was in that car."

"Yes," said Major Jenner. "That puzzled me too, but it couldn't be anyone I know to be missing. Might it have been a burglar? Stole the car and ran? That's what I thought at the time, except that Will..." 

"Yes, except that your cousin then disappeared completely," said Mr Cowley. "Which hardly makes sense in that context. So he had, possibly at the least, to have known the person who died. Did you ever meet any of his friends?"

"Once or twice," said Major Jenner. "People he knew at the university: a rather odd girl with green hair, I remember."

"My cousin, Miss Somerville," said Doyle coldly. "She was abroad at the time, and is definitely still alive."

"Doyle!" said Mr Cowley. "No ex-army friends?" he added to Jenner.

"Several. They tend to be people I know too, none unaccounted for," said Major Jenner. "Will and I were in the same regiment. And David, of course, the local vicar's son," he added.

Doyle passed a photo over. "Is this him?" he asked.

Major Jenner glanced at it. "Yes," he said shortly. "And that's Miss Somerville." He lit a cigarette.

Mr Cowley looked at him a moment. "What did you think of David?" he asked. "What is his full name?"

"Emmerson," said Major Jenner. "I didn't like him, little creep." He stubbed his cigarette out. "Trying to give up the things," he said.

"Why didn't you care for him?" asked Mr Cowley. "He was an old friend of your cousin, lived locally; you'd known him and his family for years, hadn't you?"

"Yes," Major Jenner admitted. "But it wasn't right."

"I see," said Doyle.

"Look, Doyle," said Major Jenner, "I didn't care whether Will was straight, gay or piebald - or David, for that matter. I just felt it was bad for both of them. David was much too fixed on Will. Oh, he had a load of charm, but - "

"And you didn't see him that way?" asked Doyle.

"No, I didn't. If he was crossed in any way - and remember, we had known each other for years: Will and I grew up together - that little tyke was up the wall. I remember once we were larking about and I shoved Will in the lake. Helped him out of course. Then...well, if looks could have killed, the face the little swine had on him... I mentioned it to Will. He just laughed and said David would grow out of it."

"Interesting," said Mr Cowley. "Do you know where David Emmerson is now?"

"In New Zealand," said Major Jenner. "He has relatives farming out there. I remember his mother telling me."

"Thank you," said Mr Cowley. "You never sold the house, Hafod? I know you were the administrator of Mr Bodie's estate."

"No, it was strange. As Will was unmarried, his next-of-kin was his mother, my Aunt Bridget. She lived in the Republic. I wrote her, asked about putting the house on the market. She said, oh no, she would pay the rates on the land. I could lease out the fields for grazing and keep the house maintained, and she would pick up the bills. Said she wanted to hold on to the property for a while. When she died the solicitors said she had left it to a Mr O'Brien and they would deal with everything as before. Wasn't too happy about this, thought she had some hobbledehoy relative she'd left it to." He sniffed.

"You never suspected your cousin was still alive, then?" said Mr Cowley. "And it will go no further than Doyle and I, if you did."

"No, at least... Well, you know I live at Hay-on-Wye? It's a fair step from Hafod. I was driving through soon after Aunt Bridget died. Good sport, she was, but odd; being Irish, I suppose. Anyway, I thought, I'll take a quick look at the house. I have an agent who keeps an eye on the place, but it's as well to check yourself. It was almost dark when I reached the bottom of the driveway. Thought it wasn't worth it, then, no, I'd go and look, save another journey. Walked up the drive, front of the house looked fine, could do with some paint, went towards the gardens. There's a side gate, then a walled garden and an old orchard, very overgrown now, I'm afraid. Looked through and saw a man standing looking into the garden. You know how you recognise someone by the way they stand?"

"And what did you think?" asked Mr Cowley. "You didn't call out?"

"No, whoever - whatever - stood there, I knew it meant no harm. I didn't want to know, Mr Cowley. Then when I looked again, he had gone. Of course, I realise now he would have gone through the door at the side to the stable yard, probably left his car down there. Will loved that place, always saying what he would do when he took it over. I don't think there is anything else."

"Thank you for coming," said Mr Cowley. "I'd like to get in touch with you again. If you could leave your phone number where you can be reached..." 

Major Jenner nodded and scribbled it down. "I hope to hear from you, sir," he said.

After he left, Doyle thought a moment. "Why did he take the risk? Plenty of people could have recognised him even if he waited till dark."

"As to that," said Mr Cowley, "there are people who become very attached to a particular place. I think he just wanted one last look before he closed the door on that part of his life for ever."

"Poor bastard," said Doyle. "And I don't think that priggish soldier told us all he knew. He did recognise his cousin, didn't he."

"Oh yes," said Mr Cowley. "But as he never believed him guilty, he wasn't going to give him away then. A very cool customer, Major Jenner."

"I suppose he couldn't have killed the old man," said Doyle moodily.

"Hardly. He was directing a tank on manoeuvres in Germany at the time; his absence couldn't have gone unnoticed by his colleagues. And I believe him when he says he had completely severed relations with his father. He has a decent private income from his mother's estate. It really was a matter of indifference to him whether or not he was in the will."

"Why doesn't that stupid sod make a statement?" said Doyle.

"We may be able to hazard a guess about that," said Mr Cowley. "When I was at Telford I was allowed to see his medical report, which showed a head injury some years ago which had been sutured. Quite a bad one, the prison doctor thought. Mr Bodie stated he could not remember when this happened, but did give me the name of the doctor who attended him in the Republic. I telephoned Doctor Coghill last night. After I explained the situation, he agreed to forward a full report to us, and gave his opinion that when he attended Mr Bodie a week after the event he was still suffering from the effects of concussion. His mother informed the doctor her nephew James O'Brien had fallen from a wall and sustained the injury. The patient didn't dispute it. Now, it is possible that Mr Bodie genuinely cannot remember anything of the events before he was injured, but only he can tell us that."

"So," said Doyle, "he may not even know whether or not he killed his uncle, or who was in the car with him?"

"Precisely," said Mr Cowley. "Now, I am going to Shropshire this weekend, and you will be in charge. Naturally, of course you will recall me if necessary. Major Jenner has agreed to take me to the village and I hope to talk to some of the inhabitants. They may be more forthcoming when I am with him."

Doyle thought of remarking "rather you than me" but decided against it. "Good of you to spare the time, sir," he said finally.

"Yes," said Mr Cowley. "But as you involved CI5 and I am not happy about the case myself, we need to clear it up as quickly as possible. Now, what have we on hand for the weekend?"

oOo

"So where is the Old Man off to tomorrow, then?" asked Murphy. "He's never having time off, is he?" 

"Doing some checking on a case," said Doyle vaguely. "This is interesting. I think I've found someone who has really slipped through the bureaucratic network leaving no trace."

"Never!" said Murphy, scowling as he tried to make his computer disgorge a piece of information which was firmly lodged in its memory.

"Doyle," he said finally, "if you've got a moment."

"Oh God, not again," said Doyle. "I wish you would stop bullying that poor machine. All right, now what isn't it doing?"

After a brief struggle the information was supplied.

"Thanks," said Murphy. "It knows I've never taken to it. Who is your invisible man then?"

"A lad called David Emmerson," said Doyle. "No passport. The one he had lapsed years ago.  
He's not paying his national insurance contributions and has no driving licence. Not drawing national assistance..." 

"Thought he emigrated," said Murphy, looking with pride at his now completed report.

"No record of it," said Doyle. "Mind, I haven't had a reply from New Zealand House yet. Let's check some more."

Four hours later he eased his aching back and looked at the clock. Should have gone home two hours ago, he thought. Old Man's still here, I knew he slept on the job. He could hear other agents moving about in the corridors but for the moment he had the computer room to himself.

"Doyle," Mr Cowley came over.

Actually leaving, thought Doyle. Another illusion shattered.

"What are you doing?" said Mr Cowley. "You should have finished hours ago."

"Trying to find someone," said Doyle. "David Emmerson. He seems to have vanished the same time as William Bodie. Here," he passed the printout over. "And he is not in New Zealand, at least not officially."

Mr Cowley read through the report. "Have we any idea of what David Emmerson looked like?" he asked.

"I've seen a grotty old photo," said Doyle, "but other than that, no. Hang on, let's see if the restrained Major Jenner can give us a description, if I can contact him."

"Here is his phone number," said Mr Cowley. "I'll just get that post-mortem report."

Major Jenner was at home, though conversation was difficult due to the background noise of what was obviously a children's party. Doyle listened to the description, passing his notes to Mr Cowley, who nodded and asked for the phone.

"Major Jenner, it appears that David Emmerson could have been the man in the car. You are sure his family said he had gone to New Zealand?"

"Definitely," said the Major. "I was just surprised he didn't come back home again. Never one for hard work was David. I'll see you tomorrow then?"

Mr Cowley agreed this was so and confirmed their meeting place.

"You had better tell me all you know about David Emmerson," said Mr Cowley. Doyle did so, and they left together.

oOo

Andrew Jenner carefully placed two large Scotches on the table in front of his companion. "Best they had," he remarked. "I've booked lunch for us, the food is said to be good here."

Mr Cowley nodded. "I've never visited this part of the country before," he said. "Very pleasant indeed."

"Not bad," said Andrew. "Too many trippers scorching through in the summer, but after a couple of terms in Belfast and the East I'm always ready to come back here. Interesting about Will's head injury. Reminded me of a chap in my unit. His head injury didn't look like much but after a few days we realised he wasn't really with us at all. Packed him off to hospital and he was right as rain afterwards, but no memory until he clicked to in hospital. We decided he must have just been going on autopilot. You know, when I rang Aunt Bridget to break it to her that Will was dead (as we thought), she said she had been worried about him as he was due to visit her. When all the time... Have to hand it to Aunt Bridget, she could lie in her teeth and you would never know it."

"I would have liked a few words with that lady," said Mr Cowley grimly. "But what concerns me most at the moment is David Emmerson's family. Either they genuinely did not know he was killed in that car crash (if he was) and he is in New Zealand (which on our investigations is unlikely), or they have been lying in their teeth too. And I'd like to know why. Do you know where they are now? Is his father still the local vicar?"

"His mother died a year ago," said Andrew. "Picked that up in the village. Then his father resigned the living and went to live with a widowed sister. I can find out his address."

"Yes, do," said Mr Cowley. "Ah, we are being called for lunch."

 

"Forgive me for asking," said Mr Cowley, as they walked through the village later, "but it strikes me that your father's death seems to have been little regretted in the village."

"My father," said Andrew Jenner, "would have won hands down 'the most unpopular man in Shropshire' contest, against all comers. He was always in the courts suing people, trying to get locals prosecuted for poaching. Behaved badly to his tenants and anyone unfortunate enough to work for him. And he was far too fond of raising a hand to his children, until they were old enough to hit back. On our last confrontation, apart from threatening to disinherit me, he also informed me he had instructed Will to get married, before 'people started to talk'. I made a few pertinent remarks and just ducked in time. I've seen him backhand Will across a room before Will grew up. He wanted Will to stay in the army. Only peasants sat around growing potatoes, he said. He wanted them to bring back feudalism. When that went out he felt the country had gone to the dogs, said so frequently."

"And how did Mr Bodie feel about all this?" asked Mr Cowley.

"Like me, that the old man was on another planet, and paid no attention to him. And like me, he didn't intend to keep in touch once the estate was settled. That's the church," said Major Jenner. "A fine thing if it's David in our family plot in the graveyard there. Mrs Kynaston seems to be hailing us."

A middle-aged lady was hurrying towards them. "Andrew," she began, "you were asking about William in 'The Dog & Gun', our Alice was saying. The last time he was here."

"Yes, Mr Cowley and I. Did you see him that day?" said Andrew.

"No, but my Aunt Gwennie did, only told us when we heard William was still alive, didn't know what to make of it. She's been worrying whether to tell the police or not. If you could see her?"

"We would be happy to," said Mr Cowley. "Anything she can tell us could be of help to Mr Bodie."

"Oh good. I'll come with you then to her cottage, it's only just down the lane here." 

"Alice?" queried Mr Cowley to Andrew, as they followed her down the lane.

"Barmaid at 'The Dog & Gun'," said Andrew. "We used to think Aunt Gwennie was the local witch when we were children. Nice old body really, keeps to herself. As she has a garden with five beehives, only the intrepid call anyway."

"Ah," said Mr Cowley.

Aunt Gwennie, once they had picked their way down her overgrown path, was hospitality itself, pouring tea and dispensing seed cake in large slices.

"It's a relief to tell someone," she said. "At the time, well, I didn't want to make trouble for the family, and it wouldn't have helped. You see, I was walking home that evening from visiting my sister Megan, she lived over at Top End (dead now these six years). As I came round by your father's house, Andrew, there was a car at the side of the road. I saw it was Mr William's car. He was leaning on the bonnet, blood all over his face, and a young man helping him.

"Oh William, I said, what ever has happened to you? And the young man, I saw then it was the vicar's son, gave me such a strange look - really chilled me. He said William had hurt his head and they were going to get it attended to, and then William pulled his arm and they got in the car and drove off."

Mr Cowley pulled out a photograph. "It was definitely this young man you saw with Mr Bodie?" he asked.

"Oh yes, sir, that's David."

"Who was driving?" asked Mr Cowley.

"David. William was holding his head. He looked really bad."

"Thank you," said Mr Cowley. "I think you should tell the police what you have told us. It could help Mr Bodie."

As they walked back to the car, Andrew remarked, "Mrs Willis had a narrow escape. If Will hadn't been there..." 

"I'm inclined to agree with you," said Mr Cowley. "I'm going to have to see the police. We have no authority to contact David's father and I'd rather they did it. At least we can now put someone else there at the time."

 

oOo

"I've been in touch with the man in charge of the case," said Mr Cowley to Doyle the next day. "He has promised to keep us informed of developments."

"You didn't go to see the Reverend Emmerson then?" said Doyle.

"No, I thought it much better to contact the local police with our information; it is their case. We are now fairly certain that David Emmerson was also at the scene and could have been connected with the crime."

"It just might jolt Bodie into making a statement," said Doyle. "Does he know you've placed David there with him?"

"I've no idea," said Mr Cowley. "And before you leap off, we cannot get further involved. It's up to the police now. I have suggested it is odd the Reverend Emmerson hasn't made any inquiries about his son in New Zealand; the police are trying to find relatives there."

"Unless," said Doyle, "he doesn't know who was actually killed in that crash."

"Exactly," said Mr Cowley. "He either expected his son to get back in touch if he was not in the car, or to hear if Mr Bodie had turned up in police custody."

oOo

It was two days before Superintendent Robbins got in touch.

"George? Good, thought you would like to know, we interviewed the Reverend Emmerson. He said it was a great relief to be able to tell us at last. They had been keeping the papers from him. He's in very frail health, hadn't been in touch before for the sake of his wife. I'm sending you a copy of his statement. Also showed us his son's diary. Sad business, the boy must have been a constant worry to his parents, and no-one seems to have suspected. Well, you know what families are, must keep it quiet.

"We interviewed Mr Bodie again, told him a statement had been made. He broke down then, told us all he could remember, which included seeing Mrs Willis. He remembered being very worried for her, but not why. Just knew he had to get David away from her. He didn't know his uncle was dead till David told him, and he only remembered that much later. We knew there had been someone else injured in that room. I used to say Dr Jenkins was a fusspot, checking everything; glad he did now. The other blood group matches Mr Bodie's. At the moment I'd say we will be releasing him, no charges, but have to hear from the top."

"Yes," said Mr Cowley. "Thank you very much, and I'd be interested to see that statement. Yes, goodbye."

Mr Cowley put down the phone. "Betty," he said, "find Mr Doyle."

oOo

Doyle slowly read through the two statements.

"What a mess!" he said finally. "Bodie, going to see his uncle, meets David sulking along the road, in disgrace at home and being threatened with being sent abroad. Wonder why parents always think 'abroad' will have a good effect in cases like his?"

"Wishful thinking," said Mr Cowley. "And it gets them out of sight and a long way away. Bodie and his uncle have a 'disagreement' and not for the first time his uncle takes a punch at him which, for once, lands; Bodie falls and hits his head on the mantle. David, who, of course, has been coming to see how things are, sees him and immediately picks up the poker."

"More than likely the stupid old bugger was trying to give Bodie first aid," said Doyle.

"Then David drags him to the car, gets to a phone booth miles away and calls his father, incoherent with panic," said Mr Cowley.

"And starts off, 'Daddy fix it, it wasn't my fault'," said Doyle. "Daddy says no, go to the police, please, David. Will needs attention. Then David does his 'you don't care about me and you'll never see us again' routine and sets off to drive over the nearest edge. Stupid little sod," he went on.

"And the evidence confirms the statements," said Mr Cowley. "They have lifted David's fingerprints off that diary - some very nasty passages in there - and they match the 'unknowns' from the room. The gardener heard shouting but as he often did, paid no attention. Bodie, only semi-conscious, starts wondering what is happening and pulls open the car door as they go over. All he remembers then is looking at the blaze and thinking 'I'm going to have to hurry to get the boat'. He'd been planning to stay with his mother for some time."

"How on earth did he get to Oughterard," said Doyle, "with a bleeding head?"

"Probably just taken as one more slightly battered Irishman going home after a rough few days," said Mr Cowley. "His mother seems to have taken over immediately he arrived at her place and collapsed. And when he was himself again, with frightening gaps in his memory, William Bodie was officially dead and buried. So when he did return to England it was with a new identity."

"What's going to happen about that, and to him?" asked Doyle.

"No charges as to his uncle's death; he was released quietly yesterday morning. His family wished to get him away without the press being there in force. As to his identity, you can call yourself John Paul Getty," said Mr Cowley dryly, "as long as you don't write cheques on his bank account. And any complaint about his passport would have to come from the Irish government. They have said they see no reason to get excited about it."

"No, they wouldn't," said Doyle bitterly. "So that's it?"

"Yes," said Mr Cowley. "Quite satisfactory. David's father takes the view that his son can't be hurt or hurt anyone else now, and his mother died completely convinced he was safe in New Zealand. Of course, she had no real understanding of what David was capable of." 

"So that's that then," said Doyle.

"Yes, apart from Major Jenner asking if he could call this morning."

"Sounds like his boots approaching," said Doyle. "Sure you need me, sir?"

"Yes, Doyle," said Mr Cowley firmly.

Major Jenner entered and nodded to Doyle briskly. "I wanted to come and thank you both," he said. "If it had not been for you, Will would be either facing a prison sentence, or still stuck in that hole up north. Just wanted to say that."

"How is he coping?" asked Mr Cowley, realising Doyle was not going to be a social asset at this time.

"Still trying to grasp that he can really start over again," said Major Jenner. "He is at my place for the moment, till we can get the services back on at Hafod, and then I'm not sure it will be fit to live in. But he seems to want to move in as soon as possible. Sometimes I think if it wasn't for Ann and I watching him he'd be back up north. Damned reporters were a pest. One had the nerve to ask him would he tell his story to a national paper. Had to ask the man to leave. Will was quivering like an aspen. All he wants is to be left alone."

"Don't blame him," said Doyle. "Sorry, I have to get back to my work. Give him my best wishes, will you."

oOo

"Well you always complained they never sent you to Torquay," said Murphy as Doyle, muttering balefully, was making out his report two months later. "We never did get a thank you letter from your Mr Bodie, by the way, and you had your job on the line for him."

"Maybe he preferred being a recluse in darkest Derbyshire," said Doyle. "Next time you can have Torquay, it's full of boarding-houses, retired colonels, and I can't stand the sea - especially when I nearly drowned in it. Do you have any idea how cold the English Channel is? There, that's it. If the Old Man wants me, I've gone home to a hot-water bottle, a toddy and a hot bath. And I don't think one hot-water bottle is going to be enough."

Later that evening, Doyle was just considering Friar's Balsam - he'd swear it was good for something, Aunt Mildred used to say so - when the phone rang.

"Oh, Beryl," he said thickly. "What concert? Oh, that's nice for you. No, I'm not. I'm planning on expiring gracefully from rapid consumption. Yes, I do feel awful. I nearly drowned two days ago in the service of my country. Must you? All right, then. No, you do not need to get me a ticket. I've got Sunday off. Only on condition you don't try to convert me to anything. Good."

oOo

By Sunday Doyle was 'full of cold', to quote Aunt Mildred, and wheezed unhappily as he answered his entry phone.

"Come up if you must," he said to a horribly energetic-sounding Beryl. He opened the door and found himself gazing at Bodie.

"Look who I found skulking outside the RHS hall," said Beryl, with the air of one who had landed a prize catch. "I press-ganged him into walking me over here. It's not safe in London these days for a gently nurtured girl."

"I know," said Doyle, "but you should have been all right. If anyone has the strength, the kitchen's that way. I'm going to lie down again. Someone can bring me a hot drink."

"You're really ill," said Beryl indignantly. "And they are playing two of my pieces! Oh Ray, it's really too bad of you! And I got you a ticket."

Doyle gave her a 'look' and retired to his duvet. He was presently joined by Bodie with a steaming mug of something.

"I made you a soldier's saviour," he said awkwardly.

Doyle took a sip. "Tastes better than Friar's Balsam," he said. "Go on, sit down a minute and stop looking at me like you're a rabbit threatened by a stoat, whatever that might be. What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Should have called and thanked you," said Bodie. "I'm just starting to get my head straight." 

"I know the feeling," said Doyle. "Forget it."

"Well," said Bodie, "I've sold the café, went quite quickly, something about a bypass. Collected Jemima and arranged for my stuff to come down to Shropshire. Was going to throw out the books, then found I couldn't part with them, well, most of them. I came up to see the show at the RHS and make some contacts. I'm starting a nursery, cottage garden and plants for period gardens. I've got the land and outbuildings that can be converted, some stock in my mother's place back in Ireland. I can move over here if I can get a licence to do it." He stopped. "Am I being a bore?"

"Go on," said Doyle, "you're taking my mind off my suffering. What the hell is Beryl doing out there?" as a crash came from the kitchen area.

"She said she would throw a meal together," said Bodie.

"I see," said Doyle. "I won't state the obvious. You don't have to go to the concert with her, you know. I'll back you up."

Bodie grinned. "No, I like the other pieces they are playing and I haven't heard Beryl's music. Look, would you like to come down and see Hafod? It has an Aga, well, it will have by next week. I did quite well selling the Irish property. Enough to afford to do some work on the house, make it fit to live in."

"Thanks," said Doyle. "I'd like to. You'd better go and supervise Beryl. Tell her if she blows up my microwave, she pays for a new one!"

oOo

"I knew you'd be back bursting with energy," said Murphy. "How was Shropshire and all the sheep and things?"

"Fine," said Doyle. "I think I pricked out about two hundred seedlings, I keep seeing their tiny leaves in my sleep! Bodie assures me I have perfect hands for the job! I've just left Betty going all gaga over a bunch of violets he sent her up. Had to get a licence to import them from Eire. Now, what have all the baddies been up to in my absence?"

"Quite a lot," said Murphy. "The Old Man wants to see you about this case. I've made out a possible list for you. And we think we have a good line on that IRA cell. Just waiting for another report to come in about that."

"Better go and see him then," said Doyle. "Oh, there's some raspberries for you and the family in that bag, freshly picked yesterday."

oOo

Doyle, muttering, shook the telephone receiver. "Bloody awful connections. You'd expect it if you were ringing Katmandu, not a house in Shropshire," he said. "Bodie! At last. No, I can't get down. The cowboys are restive again. Expect you saw on the news. No, nothing to worry about, just screwed up my leave. Listen, I'll drop that sketch for the catalogue in the post so you can take a look at it, see what you think. Cross your fingers for next fortnight. Can't stop now, Murph's biting my neck. Bye."

"Liar!" said Murphy. "Listen, I don't want that big, blue-eyed thug up here thumping me."

"Bodie's a pussy cat," said Doyle. "Better get on with the job. Just drop this in the post, I've done a cover for his next catalogue. Didn't like the last one, very boring. Everyone organised?"

"Yes," said Murphy. "Three cars, and back-up is arranged if we need it."

oOo

Bodie idly watching the late late news while he had some supper, started, then turned up the sound. It never looks real on film, he thought. Where's Ray? After a brief report on casualties, they were back with the announcer droning on about the economy.

It was three hours before Bodie was able to get definite information, then he began to pack a bag. "Have to go to London, love," he said to his cat. "I'll leave a note for Mrs Bassett. Ray's been hurt. Have to see him."

oOo

"Mr Cowley, sir?"

He turned slowly; Bodie was in the doorway, his face and hair wet with rain.

"I heard on the news," Bodie said. "Then rang the desk. How is he?"

Mr Cowley sighed. "It's very bad, Bodie. They do not think he will make it."

Bodie's face crumpled a moment, then: "He damn well better," he said. "We have plans. Can I see him?"

A nurse appeared; Mr Cowley approached her. "Would it be possible for Mr Bodie here to see the patient? He's...family." The nurse looked Bodie over critically. "You look all in," she remarked. "I'll get you a cup of tea. Yes, you can sit by him a while."

Bodie moved to the bedside and sat down, studying the pale face. After a while Doyle stirred and looked about. He gazed at Bodie with vague surprise.

"Hello, blue eyes," he whispered. "What brought you up to the 'sink'?"

"Heard you had gone and done something daft," said Bodie, holding a hand.

Doyle smiled faintly and looked at Mr Cowley who had a hand on Bodie's shoulder. To Doyle's unspoken question, he nodded, accepting the charge. Doyle smiled at him weakly, then gazed at Bodie's face, "I'm glad to see you," he said, "but - " Bodie quickly kissed the back of the hand he held. "But nothing," he said. "Not going to let those bastards win, are you?"

"No," said Doyle, drifting off again. "Wouldn't dare."

 

"Bodie?" Mr Cowley gave him a gentle shake. "Wake up, man."

Bodie stirred on the chair and looked about. "He looks better," he said, looking at Doyle critically.

"Yes, he's hung on well. And you need to get some real sleep. Come on. The hospital are not expecting any change and we will only be round the corner. I will have to make you an honorary member of CI5! We seem to have your plants all over the place, and very pleasant they are too, and half my men taking 'working holidays' down in Shropshire."

"And very good workers they are too," said Bodie. "Thank you, sir."

oOo

Doyle, thinner, paler, but definitely alive, peered into the paper bag and extracted a large slice of gingerbread, happily scattering crumbs on the hospital counterpane.

"Mrs Bassett is a treasure," he said, with his mouth full. "Told her about the horrible food, did you?"

"Yes," said Bodie. "Some slab cake in the other bag, her Cornish pasties were barred. What happened to Fred?"

"Escaped," said Doyle sourly. "His family sprung him, refused to commit him to the ghastly convalescent home they have for damaged agents. That's a hint, Bodie!"

"No," said Bodie calmly. "I've had a chat with George. You have a fortnight at the Home, then I'll pick you up for a month at Hafod."

"Honestly," said Doyle, "it's awful. They have singsongs and give you bracing talks." He looked hopefully at Bodie, who gave no sign of melting and offering to spring him. Oh well, it was worth a try.

oOo

A month later, in the early evening, Doyle glanced up as something flittered by.

"My first bat," he enthused. "Bit disappointing though, aren't they, after the Hammer Horror movies. Little thing like that."

"There's a colony in the stable roofspace," said Bodie. "Take you up there and introduce you tomorrow if you like, when they are all hanging up like umbrellas. I took the catalogue to the printers last week. Should look fine with your cover."

"Of course," said Doyle. "Hi, Jemima. She's really settled, hasn't she."

"Place is crawling with field mice," said Bodie. "And she has a boyfriend, he lives down the lane there. We better be going in, getting cooler."

"Listen, mother...!" said Doyle. "Could do with some supper."

 

"Have to do something about this wallpaper," said Doyle critically as they ate supper by the fire. "Of course, the pattern might have been quite exciting in 1810. Wonder what's underneath."

"Four more layers," said Bodie. "I took a look behind the damp patch in the corner. Let's leave it alone for the moment. Never know what we might disturb."

oOo

"They told me in 'The Dog & Gun' this morning," said Bodie, "that David had a row with my uncle just before I came back. The old man threatened him with the police for trespassing. I'd never have taken him near the house if I had known. I was going to drop him at his parents, after talking some sense into him. Told him to stay in the car. I only remember the old man getting annoyed because I was going to Ireland to work at my mother's place - get practical experience - and that's where it finishes. I wanted you to know."

Doyle nodded. "I've seen your statement. You can't blame yourself, but I know you do. No sense in it, Bodie. Anything interesting in the post - like orders?"

"We have not sent the new catalogues out yet," said Bodie. "Couple for the old one, we can fill both. Anson will be down at the weekend, staying at 'The Dog & Gun'. We are invited to the party."

Doyle sat up. "What party? Didn't know Terry was that keen on the country, kept wondering why he was so pleased to visit and be slave labour for you."

"He's getting engaged to 'our Alice'," said Bodie. "Fine detective you are. I've known he was courting her for months. Had to explain that it didn't do to trifle down here. His mother's from Hereford, so it turned out he knew that. Once they knew he had decent relatives Alice's mum said fine, and her dad is delighted to have someone to smoke with in his hut at the end of the garden."

Doyle chuckled. "Cowley is going to love you if he packs in the job. It's her uncle owns 'The Dog & Gun', isn't it?"

"Yes," said Bodie. "And Andrew rang, wants to know are you interested in fishing this weekend. Give him a ring if you are. Never thought you two would get on."

"We don't," said Doyle. "We sit there watching our floats and making sprightly conversation like, 'Can I try one of your flies?' or 'Any bait left? Pass the sarnies.' His wife makes great sandwiches - and pasties. Wish you could."

"Yes, he said it was pleasant not fishing with someone who yacked all the time," said Bodie. He got up and paced round the room, then looked down at Doyle, now stretched provocatively out on the sofa, reading 'The Field'.

"Ray, we have to talk about us," he began.

"What about us?" said Doyle vaguely. "Fancy buying me a ring or something?"

"I fancy thumping you at the moment," said Bodie. "Would you like me to get down on my knees, though I'm warning you, you will have to haul me onto my feet afterwards, they're crippling me after all that weeding this morning."

"Might be more convenient for some things," said Doyle, holding out his arms. "I haven't the strength to get back on my feet. Listen, you do know I'm being invalided out, don't you. Well, I could take a desk job - but it would drive me nuts. I'll have a lump sum and good pension, and me savings, never having had enough time to spend them. And you need someone to do the business end."

"I do,” said Bodie fervently. "Even let you have a computer to do it with, as you have kept nagging, me to. Well, what do you say? Fancy spending your life with me here in Shropshire away from all the gaiety of London Town?"

"Only." said Doyle, "that if you pay for the computer (and I know the model we need) you let me buy you a decent piano. You can pick one out next time we are in Shrewsbury."

oOo

It was high summer in Hafod.

"Bodie!" Doyle looked about and waved a mug of tea. There was grunt of approval and his companion straightened up with relief from halfway down a row of plants and made his way to the bench. "When they said a gardener needed an iron back with a hinge in it, they were dead right," he remarked.

"Lovely day," said Doyle. "And this bench is in just the right spot. Good idea of the lads giving us it for my retirement present. Or did you hint?"

"Dropped a word in George's ear," said Bodie, drinking his tea with appreciation.

"Alice's mum phoned again," said Doyle gloomily. "Said not to be late for the rehearsal. Think she's got everyone run ragged there."

"Probably," said Bodie. "Never mind, you'll make a great best man. Pity George couldn't make it. He looked like he needed a break when I saw him in June after the RHS."

"Think he's the one person you don't automatically hand a trug to," said Doyle. "Which reminds me, don't ever pass anything back of you to someone again without looking."

"Eh?" said Bodie. "Oh, that lady I passed the toad to, thinking it was you when I was clearing the old pond yesterday. She was all right, stood there like a rock holding him till I could pop him back."

"She was catatonic with shock!" said Doyle. "I had to pour a brandy down her in the kitchen. She'd only come for your vote. Told her that was a waste of time. Oh, and we had a postcard from Beryl. She doesn't think much of Corfu."

"Can't think why she went there," said Bodie. "She could have come here and picked soft fruit. Nice change for her."

Doyle shook his head. "You are the last word," he said. "I'd better get back to the orders, get 'em on file. Give you the run down tonight."

"Ray." Bodie caught him as he started to move away. "I never said so, but I'm glad now I opened my door that night. Very glad."

"So am I, love," said Doyle. "So am I. See you later."

 

March, 1992


End file.
